


Lucky

by Oparu



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Huddling For Warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught in the rain, May has to let her team fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> It was cold in my house tonight and all I could think about was Scully's sleeping bag quote. _“Well, maybe if it rains sleeping bags, you’ll get lucky.”_ \- Detour.

Skye was right about Simmons. She could be incredibly bossy, considering how shy and uncertain she often was, when she was in a situation where she knew what was right, she had no trouble pushing everyone around, even Director Coulson. The look on Phil's face as he listened to Simmons' orders just about made her smile, except that her teeth were chattering too much to allow her lips to move. She couldn't even speak, which was frustrating because she would have liked to have some input in what they were deciding to do. 

Skye held the jacket just a little tighter around Melinda's shoulders, which shook, along with the rest of her, as her body tried desperately to raise her temperature. When they'd first arrived in the SUV and finally gotten her out of the rain and the wind, she'd been too cold to shiver, which was more dignified. Now that her entire body trembled, it was frustrating that she had so little control over any of it. Her fingers wouldn't move. Her toes, most of her feet really, were numb enough that her nerves didn't even seem to think she had feet. The rest of her wasn't much better. 

It wasn't any of their fault the pick up had been late. She hadn't intended to go in the water (if she had, she would never have worn the sodden leather catsuit that now clings to her frozen skin). She'd planted the cameras along the dam, just where they needed to be, and then hid, waiting. Then it rained, and hailed, and she hadn't been dressed for it, and it became very cold. 

During the drive back to their hideout, Simmons hovered like an angry mother bird. The heat in the SUV had been all the way up, still was, but it couldn't get through. Phil drove, but she wanted him to be in the backseat with her, arms wrapped around her. Fitz and Skye had gotten as close as they dared, maybe even a little closer because Simmons was so worried about the shade of Melinda's lips. 

She'd have to wear navy blue lipstick someday, just for Simmons' reaction. 

The whole drive to the campsite (because they were a day's drive from the Bus), Skye and Fitz had cuddled up next to her like puppies, to share body heat. Fitz took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, Skye's coat was on her legs, and still she shook so hard that Phil nearly stopped the car, twice, to let Skye drive instead. 

Now they were setting up the campsite, and it was still raining, so she sat in the car, Skye next to her because she knows nothing about tents. Even with the heater blazing away, Melinda's not sure she can feel much below her knees, and her wrists are so cold that they ache, either because her circulation is returning or failing and she can't remember which because even her thoughts are numb. 

The fire crackles in front of Simmons. Phil tosses sleeping bags into the first tent while Fitz works on the second. Originally they had intended to put the three women together and have Fitz and Phil share, but Simmons has changed that. 

"Get her in the tent," Simmons says. 

She's finally shivering slower, and a kind of calm comes with the stillness. 

"She's not shaking any more," Skye says, her voice full of hope. "That's good, isn't it?" Skye attempts to lead her out of the car, but her legs buckle. Skye catches her before she hits her head on the SUV, but her legs won't hold her: annoying.

Simmons touches her forehead and shakes her head. "She's getting worse. We have to get her warmed up. Skye, heat the water and make hot chocolate. Make it strong, we need to get her blood sugar up. Fitz, finish the tent and get started on the generator, we might need to use the heat for the tent. Coulson, you need to get her out of her wet clothes and into a sleeping bag. I'd do it, or Skye could but--"

"It's all right," Phil says, putting her leaden arms around his neck. "I know what to do."

Melinda can't remember what the field treatment is for hypothermia. Is that what she has? Surely she's just cold, because the shivering's stopped and her wrists just don't ache anymore. 

"May?" he asks, lifting her up. "I have to take your clothes off."

She'll never get them off herself, so it must be a good idea. "Okay," she whispers, surprised her voice works. 

"It'll be cold, but I'll get you warmed up, I promise." 

Setting her down on the floor of the tent, he peels off her boots, and her feet gleam white in the lantern light. He reaches up for the zipper by her neck, all business. Somehow, it's hard to keep her eyes open, and he grabs her chin. 

"Hey, stay with me."

The zipper starts to slide down and she remembers she's really not wearing much beneath it. 

"Cold," she mutters. 

"I know," he says, and there's something in his smile that almost warms her. "I'm working on it."

"Phil--"

"I'm sorry we were late."

"No," she says. Swallowing hurts, and she almost can't do it. 

"We were late, May. The road washed out and we had to go around. We should have taken the rain into account."

He gently guides her shoulder, then the rest of her arm out of her suit. She can't feel the chill of the air anymore and her skin doesn't steam the way his does. 

"No- more- weather control," she jokes, struggling for words with numb lips. 

"We're kind of low tech now," he agrees. With her other arm free, he wraps her torso in a towel and tugs it tight. "Stay with me."

Was she fading again? She can't help him much as he rolls the soaked leather off her hips and thighs. He lifts her legs, carefully peeling off the rest of the suit as if she's shedding her skin. He takes her bra too, and her panties, before he wraps her in another towel and opens up the sleeping bags. She watches him zip two of them together from the floor of the tent. 

The he strips, leaving his clothing in a neat pile by the sleeping bags. He'd usually fold it, she's seen him, but he's in a hurry. 

Kneeling beside her, he starts towelling her off, rubbing all of her skin with the soft, emergency towels. The water-hungry microfibre sucks up the water on her skin, but she can barely feel his hands. When she's dry enough, he lifts her one more time and sets her down on a sleeping bag. Naked aside from his shorts, he sits down next to her, holds her close to his chest, and zips them in. 

Lying down lets her head swim and he taps her face with his hands, trying to keep her with him. "Melinda--"

"You're warm."

"So I've heard," he replies, holding her tight to his chest. Considering how little she can feel, the heat of him explodes against her, almost like a wall of flame. His arms hold her close, keeping her pressed against him. She remembers sharing a sleeping bag with him during that awful Academy survival trip, when they were both soaked and starving. His teeth chattered then, but he was so warm. 

"Sir?" 

"Come in, Simmons." Somehow, Phil sits them up, still inside the sleeping bags he's turned into one huge one. He holds her between his knees, his arms around her chest. 

"Can she swallow?" Simmons looks at her, but looks through her, because she's a patient. 

"May?" he asks in her ear. "Can you drink something?"

She can't remember what muscles are involved in drinking, but nods. Simmons crouches in front of her and holds a cup to her lips. Phil strokes her shoulder inside the sleeping bag. "Cough."

She doesn't understand. 

"Cough, Melinda," he repeats, turning it into an order, which makes it easier. She can follow orders. 

She coughs and Phil's hands hold the mug to her mouth. It's warm, sweet, and thick, almost like soup. It's not soup, but she manages to swallow a little. Simmons smiles, finally pleased. 

"I'll get some warming sachets." The tent's zipper opens and closes again. 

Phil holds her, helping her drink more of the thick chocolate. She doesn't know how long she's been sitting wrapped up in Phil, when her shivers return. At first, she's not sure what it is that makes her tremble so, but her mind starts to remind her. She got wet, and cold and stood out in the dark, rainy pine forest, with terrible cover. Things go wrong in the field. Being wet and cold is far better than being shot, wet and cold, and no one appreciates that as they worry about her. Phil just holds her, arms around her chest, legs on either side of her. When her shivering finally starts to die down, and the pain of circulation returning begins, she clings to him because she hurts, everywhere. Her own blood is so much warmer than her flesh that it burns. 

He lies next to her, his knees against the backs of her thighs, his arms around her chest. When her breathing slows and evens, he wriggles back just a little, so his hips aren't pressed directly into her ass. She slides back into him, because right up against him is hot. He struggles for a moment, as if trying to reconcile his need to protect her with the way he knows she's feeling him out. 

Rolling over, Melinda rests her head on his chest. It's not as warm, but she loves the touch of his skin to her face. He's all she can feel; her blaze in the cold darkness. 

He holds her close and it’s good.


End file.
